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Title: Father Gervasy's Secret
Author: Mikhail Alekseevich Kuzmin
Translator: John Albert Barnstead
Edition: Version 1 of the ETC Kuzmin Collection edition of
Responsibility: John Barnstead, chief editor
Responsibility: Vivien Hannon, editor
Publisher: Electronic Text Centre, Dalhousie University, Nova Scotia, Canada: Kuzmin Collection, May 2002
Source: Translated from
Encoding: Encoded in TEI-conformant SGML by Patricia Prodaniuk.

People had almost forgotten the name "cow's death" first given to the large flat stone on the path running along the top of the wooded ridge, jutting far out, as if overhanging the broad valley which opened to the east. This old name had been given in time immemorial, when the Nagorno-Uspensky cloister did not yet exist; it had been given by peasants whose imagination had been fired once and for all by the spectacle of a cow that had wandered from God knows where into the forest thicket and perished there, mooing plaintively in plain sight of everyone. There were no consequences: neither hoof-and-mouth, nor drought, nor pestilences nor war followed upon this strange phenomenon; only the stone was stuck with the name "cow's death". Now it was already around ten years since the stone had been renamed "Gervasy's thought", for the new abbot of the Nagorno-Uspensky monastery, Father Gervasy, had taken a fancy to this out cropping for his long thoughts and reveries.

Below the valley spread out, almost Siberian, Transuralian, with the dark green of groves and meadows, the thick blue of the seemingly motionless river, the grey-black shadows of the clouds. There were almost no houses; everything was round, spacious, thick and darkly curling! It was as if someone had slowly poured out labrador stone by some miracle liquified, blue and primordial green, or as if a peacock had spread its tail and then just left it there.

When Father Gervasy sat on the stone, hugging his knees, his face was unusually well-suited to this congealed valley -- it was stern, bold, dark, with a noble mouth set in a black beard and with "Petrine", willful, now slightly veiled eyes -- "vatic orbs".

Had the Uspensky monastery been closer to the provincial seat, pious ladies would not have been slow to weave a romantic legend around the comparatively young abbot. Ten years ago Father Gervasy was not yet thirty, he was handsome, to the manor born, had loved in the world, and possessed an energetic and restrained character. Naturally it would have turned out immediately that he had been a dashing hussar, a count, that he had many high connections, that there had been a duel with a high-ranking official, that he faced the threat of exile, etc. And, doubtless, more than one of the provincial lionesses would have wished to reenact the story of "Father Sergius".

But the Uspensky monastery was located in such a backwater that the provincial ladies did not visit it, and the simple, devout women were not interested in love legends, so that everyone readily believed that the small round portrait of a young woman with a nice face which hung in Father Gervasy's cell really did depict his supposedly dead sister. And in point of fact she had died for his heart, for his memory, and he prayed for her almost as for a sister.

The abbot was not too popular in his monastery or among the pilgrims and the pious, perhaps because in his character there were few traits of the purely Russian elder. Restrained and energetic, pious with an aggressive piety, always doing battle with himself and with the false-hood or weakness he perceived around him, he produced the impression of a stern builder, lonely and somewhat proud, far indeed from the touching mixture of simplicity and blessedness of those vernal Russian elders who sit under apple trees in the apiary and with simple, simple words which come from God knows where -- from the elder's heart, from the spirit of the apple tree, from native heaven, from the buzzing of the bees, "God's labourers" -- melt with a direct ray simple, desolate, spiteful, reconciled, tearful hearts, entering that most secret chamber which, even if disordered, fouled, everyone has nonetheless.

Father Gervasy was lonely, but apparently was not bothered by this, having directed all his energy to the arrangement of his soul and of the cloister entrusted to him.

The monastery was comparatively new, founded in the reign of Nicholas I for the propagation of orthodoxy among the Old Believer population. Missionary activity did not prosper, and the monastery itself declined to such an extent that by the seventies the question was even raised as to whether the Nagorno-Uspensky cloister ought not to be converted to a convent or abandoned entirely. But at this point the local merchant Maslov for some reason left his entire capital to the monastery, so that in the material sense its existence was assured. Why Maslov willed all his money to the Nagorno-Uspensky monastery remained a mystery, since although the donor's family was from the Urals, in fact from this very area, he himself had died in Moscow, having been gone from his native village fifty years or more. His body was brought from Moscow in accordance with the wishes of the deceased to the Nagorno-Uspensky cloister, and buried near the stone church which was begun at that time, where every year on the day of his death a requiem mass was celebrated. None of his near and dear ones attended the funeral, because Maslov had died childless, and by that time had no relatives.

When Father Gervasy undertook the administration of the monastery far from all of the construction had been completed and the new abbot seemed to seek solace for his first years of a lonely and difficult life in purely administrative cares.

But beneath the facade of a stern builder the abbot had a heart, too, even an ardent one, and lofty dreams, and an unbending uprightness which he did not reveal out of proud modesty, in order to avoid seeming incomprehensible, or else so that his feelings would not be misinterpreted. But it was still difficult for him, despite the so to speak voluntary nature of his solitude, to keep all this within himself unshared and unappreciated. Therefore he was gladdened when Grisha Plotnikov, the son of a Siberian merchant, came to their monastery. It was a mystery what could have drawn a young man who had barely begun to live to monastic life, but Father Gervasy felt a rare ardour and a true vocation in him, and therefore marked him out at once from among the postulants, took him under his direct supervision, and somehow ceased to be as lonely as before. All the best that is included in the words "teacher" and "pupil" -- all this was in the relations of Father Gervasy with Grisha. The latter became attached to his abbot with all the force of his dreamy heart, all the more so since he saw how little this truth-loving and, in his opinion, rare person was appreciated. After all, if you know that the treasurehouse of a great and lonely soul is open to you and you alone, then along with disappointment at the blindness of those around you, there is always joy as well in knowing something others do not.

II

A week before the Feast of the Assumption, or perhaps from the first Feast of the Saviour, pilgrims began to appear at the monastery despite its remoteness, to fast in preparation for communion and to meet the holiday the cloister was named for.

The short, fierce, almost Siberian summer heat had already broken, but the days were still warm and lovely. There had appeared that first distinctness which hails approaching autumn; berries were not through yet, apples rained down, mushrooms had spread from the pine forest to its very edge -- a gourmet's delight during the Assumption fast! It was good to walk along the road: your legs seemed to fly by their own accord toward the bell far up ahead! . . .

This evening Father Gervasy did not go to church, but read mass in his cell, as he felt a trifle ill. A knock came at the door. The abbot continued to read without answering the knock. Apparently whoever was at the door understood, for the knock was repeated only about ten minutes later, when Father Gervasy, having put aside the book, was looking out the window at the pilgrims going their separate ways after church. A feeling of slightly proud satisfaction, that it was by his energy and labours that the monastery stood firm and prosperous, passed into Father Gervasy's heart.

The servant who entered informed him that some man wanted to see the abbot.

"Who is it?"

"I don't know; one of the pilgrims, an ancient old man."

"What does he need, do you know?"

"No. He just keeps insisting he has something important to say."

The abbot frowned, thinking that the traveller would tell him about some sort of visions, dreams, portents.

"Well, then, let him come tomorrow after mass."

The servant stopped short.

"But he can't come, Father Abbot."

"What do you mean he can't come?"

"He's real sick, flat on his back. He took to his bed the moment he came, day before yesterday, and hasn't got up since. You'll have to trouble yourself to go to Father Irinarch's -- he's lying there."

"Perhaps he needs to confess, is there really no one else to be found?"

"It's you he wants to tell something, Father Abbot."

"Strange. Well, all right, I'll go."

"Only, Father Abbot, don't wait too long, or else the old man may die on you."

"Why didn't you say so in the first place? Give me my cane."

The old man did not look at all like dying. Although he really was lying on a narrow bed and had even folded his hands on his breast as if preparing for departure, his face was rather animated, and his eyes glowed almost gaily. He did not speak quite as an old man from the countryside would, but rather as a man who had seen sights and been in varied company, which was of course to be expected if he were a professional traveller. He appeared to be not more than about sixty years old.

"Are you ailing, Brother?"

"Ah, Father Abbot, Your Reverence, I don't know if I'll make it to the holiday! . . "

"God is merciful!"

"Merciful, Father, merciful -- he's put up with my sins for such a long time."

"Are you so old, then?"

"Eighty two."

"You're no youngster, what can I say . . ."

"The thing's not youth, Your Reverence, but having a clean conscience."

"Do you want to confess?"

The old man was silent.

"Receive extreme unction, it will help you in your illness and strengthen your soul."

The old man remained silent.

"You wanted to tell me something; you called for me."

"I called, ah, I called! I have a great secret to reveal." "Reveal it, it will make it easier for you!"

Father Gervasy waved his hand for everyone to leave the room, and repeated: "Reveal it!"

"It's horrible."

"But won't it be horrible before the Lord? He knows all secrets! Perhaps your minutes are numbered and there, in the next world, it will be too late to repent."

The old man was silent for a long time, his eyes closed; finally he said quietly and calmly: "The cloister stands on blood money soaked with tears!"

"What?"

"The cloister stands on blood money!"

"What cloister? What are you saying?"

"Your cloister, this one, the Nagorno-Uspensky."

Father Gervasy even leaped from his chair, but then remembered himself and began to speak sternly: "You're raving or playing tricks! If you want to repent then tell your sins -- it's no good trying to deceive me."

"I am telling my sins."

"Then tell them."

"I will . . . Maslov, you know, Petr Trofimovich, how did he get his inheritance? He dispatched his brother to the next world so as not to share it with him. I knew, but I was silent, I couldn't tell. As a boy I worked in their shop -- who would believe me? So I was silent. Then, when old Maslov had passed away, I said to Petr Trofimovich once (my conscience was bothering me): Petr Trofimovich, it's a big sin: I know how Viktor Trofimovich died, and he didn't meet a natural death. And he looked at me and said: You're a smart fellow, Alesha (I'm called Aleksei), smart and know what's what, but what nonsense you're spouting! If you don't have anything better to do I'll give you something!" And he made me head clerk, although I was only twenty years old. It was as if he were trying to turn my eyes away from what had happened: he made me his right hand man and hid nothing from me; I did a lot of things he ordered me to, but I was a witness to every- thing. He bound my conscience and made me into an unwilling evil-doer . . ." Father Gervasy listened, tightly squeezing the arm of the monastery chair, never taking his eyes off the traveller, who also stared constantly at the abbot. It seemed as if it were the monk who was confessing horrible sins, and the old man who was listening to him without emotion, to such an extent did horror become ever more evident on Father Gervasy's face, and the old man's story echoed, somehow strangely indifferent and circumstantial. As the narrator unfolded the picture of deception, swindle, robberies and murders, his voice became ever duller, his story ever dryer; he seemed to be hurrying, abbreviating it -- it became mere mentions, names of people and cities, sums, years -- it was as though someone else, some demon were reading a scroll of accusations, a list, a note-book . Suddenly the abbot threw himself from the chair to his knees and, raising one hand toward heaven, with the other seized the hands of the dying man and loudly exclaimed: "I adjure thee by the living God, swear to me that thou art speaking the truth!" The old man squinted contemptuously and hurriedly interjected: "Why should I lie? You see I am dying." And he continued his confession. It is not known whether Father Gervasy listened any further. What he had learned about the money left by Maslov , which had so helped the monastery to flower like a rural flowering shrub, and had helped him, the abbot, to forget his bitter weaknesses in building, -- that was more than enough. As if in a dream he heard: "I've told only you, Father, I've bared my soul. I bore it within myself for fifty years, now you bear it for a while!" Father Gervasy lifted his head and staggered away from the dying man, who, his eyes closed, smiled to reveal his rotten teeth. The abbot crossed himself, whispering "May God be resurrected", but the smile did not disappear, and when he touched the old man and said "What's there to be laughing at, are you crazy?" he found out, saw that the traveller was already dead. Father Gervasy remained in Father Irinarch's cell a long time, and when he came out at last he swayed slightly and said in a weak voice quite unlike his usual one: "In there . . . he's dead." Grisha saw by his teacher's face that something important had happened, something that could overturn an entire life, and when the abbot put a hand on his shoulder Grisha became convinced of it. Receiving the blessing, he said fondly: "Have patience, Father Gervasy, God's truth will reveal itself!" The abbot shrank back slightly and, saying nothing in reply, bowed his head low and went to his own cell. Grisha noticed for the first time that Father Gervasy's head was trembling like an old man's.

III

Lord, Thou seest the human heart, Thou seest human weakness, Thou knowest how easily temptation enters simple souls! Thou willst not permit it: let him who is strong bear the burden! Everyone was surprised that these days the abbot was going to all the services, looking at everything atten- tively, finding a good word for everything, taking an interest in everything: the aviary, the barnyard, the bakery, the icon-painting studio, the bindery, as if he were a buyer, or as if he were planning to leave. He looked at everyone so pityingly and affectionately that he did not seem to be Father Gervasy at all.

Lord, Thou seest the irreparable, Thou seest their simplicity. Thou seest their light and willst not permit it. Let him who is strong keep silent and bear it. Grisha constantly followed on the heels of his teacher, as if he were waiting for him to say a word: the abbot spoke much and fondly, but it was as if these were not the words for which the youth's heart thirsted. Lord, Thou coverest the earth with snow! I shall pray! I know than everything should be revealed, that everything should be renounced, but Lord, I am not praying for myself, but for them. I shall pray! But must children be without a nest? Let it not be so! Grisha waited right up to the Assumption, but nothing changed. Father Gervasy celebrated the all night service as grandly as always, as always Father Deacon proclaimed "the founders of this holy temple", as always a requiem mass was celebrated over Maslov's grave.

When Grisha entered Father Gervasy's cell, the abbot was praying. His face was tearstained and decisive. Of course how good and noble it would be to reveal everything, to renounce the money -- how easy it would be! But the cloister? These simple people, what would become of them? Let the secret be his secret, let it burden him and leave them untouched. He would lose Grisha's trust, his devotion, since he would see his struggle and be tempted, taking firmness for falsehood. He was young, ardent. But let Father Gervasy be alone once more -- it would be better, more charitable for him to be silent, having taken everything on himself.

"Who takest away the sins of the world, have mercy on me!"

Grisha said: "Forgive me, Father Gervasy, I am leaving; give me leave to go."

"But why, Grisha?" They spoke as if everything between them were known already, even words weren't necessary.

"How I loved you and kept waiting for God's truth to reveal itself."

"And you couldn't wait any longer?"

"No."

"Grisha, there is no need to tell you how attached I've become to you, but is it good to save one person and tempt forty?"

"No, of course not."

"I think so, too. If you cannot remain untempted -- go. I release you. Perhaps you will return."

Grisha looked up hopefully. "When God's truth reveals itself, then?"

"When you come to understand that God's charity has already revealed itself in silence, and that it is higher than His truth."